


Stutter

by pareidoliajules



Category: Glee RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-20
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2018-01-25 21:51:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1663694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pareidoliajules/pseuds/pareidoliajules
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fic in four parts based off Stutter by Marianas Trench; different times and stages of Chris and Darren's relationship, using lines from the song.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bring Me Back To Life

Part One: Bring Me Back To Life

Chris had unreasonably good luck. If he was never lucky again, it was because he had used it all up on a random audition for a show he knew next to nothing about. He didn’t get the kid in the wheelchair, but he got a character all his own—one that wore skirts, knee-length sweaters, doused himself in hairspray and was fiercely, fiercely himself and braver than Chris himself had been when he was fifteen.

Chris had unreasonably good luck. The rumors started before the end of Season One, about giving him a love interest, but he didn’t really think Kurt needed one. He didn’t want anyone Kurt would have to depend on, because Kurt’s independence was important to him—the same way Chris’ privacy was important to him. Besides, after what the fans had done to and with Max had made Chris a little fan-shy. He almost felt bad for whatever poor guy they offered the part to.

Chris had _unreasonably_ good luck. It was Harry Freakin’ Potter. Kurt was going to fall in love with someone that Chris had already fallen in love with a long time ago. Chris would ask Darren later if he felt the spark that first afternoon too—at the time, Chris had chalked it up to getting to meet a celebrity he actually cared about, but future events shaded the things that came before it, and sometimes Chris wondered if it wasn’t a little something more than that—even then.

They had to spend an awful lot of time together. The first dinner was a blur of laughter and full, toothy smiles and references that people like Lea would never (could never) understand. As inseparable as the _Glee_ cast was, it was like a breath of fresh air to have someone new that at least had the potential of sticking around. It was what Chris would, later, say woke him up. Darren would say that Chris was plenty awake before he came around—and Chris would agree to keep the peace, but know in his heart that if he had never met Darren, things would have gone so differently for him.

                “Hey,” Chris said, swallowing a spoonful of angelhair pasta as he spoke. “I have a question. A-a favor. And you don’t have to say yes or anything because I know you’re like crazy busy and everything, but, um, I thought I should at least…ask…?”

Darren tilted his head and wiped his fingers on his napkin, then leaned his elbows on the table to better look at Chris. He was still a little Blaine-y, clean-shaven and hair cut shorter than it had been when Chris met him originally (or when he was Harry Potter), but their mannerisms were so different it always surprised him to see how easily Darren could slip into Blaine. They had talked about this at length—because they talked about almost everything at length.

                “What’s up, buddy?” Darren said, the beginnings of concern growing in Darren’s warm, hazel eyes. “I’m not busy at all.” They shared a smile—a blatant lie, but one that Chris appreciated.

                “I was—wondering if you might—um, read this thing. That I’ve been working on for a while. It’s—it’s not done, and it definitely needs to be edited some, but, um—”

                “What is it?” Darren asked, concern replaced by bright interest and a raised, triangular eyebrow.

                “It’s—it’s a novel.” Chris paused, then snorted. “Or, at least it might be, some day, if I ever actually finish the thing. It might just end up in a drawer somewhere or something—especially if a movie or something wants to hire me ever so this is really just—”

                “Chris,” Darren cut in, deep voice as sweet and gentle as a mid-morning wave upon a friendly rock. “I would love to read your work.” He said it almost reverently, and Chris could feel the blush creeping up his cheeks; Darren knew (he had to) that Chris rarely let anyone read anything he was working on. He had let Lea read the Sweeney Todd spoof he wrote in high school, but that was only because she got him drunk and then made him promise.

But most people didn’t know that. Darren was looking at him with the kind of hopeful awe that a child might have after being told he was getting rewarded for exceptional behavior—and Chris supposed that in a way, he kind of was. Darren had been a lovely friend and an extremely good scene partner, and somehow it always managed to take Chris by surprise when he would talk about something that happened before Darren came along and Darren would have to ask for clarification—because to him, Darren had always been there.

Darren knew what kind of gift he had just been given, and he kept looking at Chris with a kind of tenderness that made Chris squirmy in his seat, so he picked up his fork and raises his eyebrows, a playful silent challenging _what_ and Darren just grinned back.

Chris gave it to him on Friday, after work; the “manuscript” (that sounded so official) was stapled together and had only the title (the working title) and Chris’ name on the front, followed by about a hundred pages of what would eventually become _The Land of Stories_ —but nobody really knew that for sure yet.

                “You don’t have to read it, like, right away,” Chris assured Darren, back in Chris’ trailer. “Or, y’know, at all because—oh, I shouldn’t even bother showing you, it’s so—”

                Again, Darren just smiled and shook his head. “Chris. I want to read it. _Please_?” He flashed those hopeful puppy-like childish eyes and Chris made a show of sighing heavily before handing it over. He didn’t like to deny Darren anything; it was rare that he was actually able to.

                “Thank you,” Darren said, his voice coming out softer than Chris was sure he meant it to. “I’ll read it this weekend,” he promised, but Chris doubted/hoped he wouldn’t, because that would mean not only that he would spend all weekend worrying about what Darren was thinking, but that if he did, Darren would want to talk to him about it on Monday.

                “Do me a favor,” Chris said impulsively, his eyes moving from stack of paper to Darren’s face. “Wait till you finish reading it to talk to me. So you can have the—the full impression.” Darren nodded solemnly and the two parted ways.

(Later, Darren would live-text him his readings, or they would do it together in a living room; Darren reading for the first time and Chris making edits as he went.)

On Monday, Darren doesn’t talk to him. Chris thinks he hates him. Is he really that terrible of a writer? Chris suddenly rethought every time he touched pen to paper or fingers to keys, from the first time he wrote his name to the edits he had suggested to the most recent script.

On Tuesday, Darren came in looking sheepish. He returned the manuscript to Chris almost first thing, running a hand through his as yet un-Blaine-ified hair.

                “I’m sorry I didn’t get it back to you yesterday,” Darren said, unaware the extent to which Chris had been worried about it. “But you told me not to talk to you until I finished it, and I had to finish it last night.”

                “What? Oh. I meant—I meant don’t talk to me _about_ it.” _Oh_. The anxiety in his belly eased into something sweeter. “You read a hundred and three pages in three days?”

                Darren gave him a look. “What, like it’s hard? I have read before, once or twice.” Darren gave him the impish grin and Chris felt himself smiling back, but there was still a lump in his throat.

                “So, um, but, what did-did you think?” Chris asked, folding the papers to him like they could protect him from any criticism his best friend was about to lay on him.

                Darren looked him right in the eye, and Chris didn’t even think about looking away. “I think you need to finish that book, Colfer. I think I need to read the ending. I think you’re way more of a writer than anybody here’s realized. _Yet_.”

                Chris didn’t know what to say. He really hadn’t been expecting a compliment, let alone five of them. “O-oh. Um. Thank—thank you.” He said dumbly, a smile coming to his face in spite of himself. “Who was your favorite?”

They talked in Chris’ trailer until a PA came looking for them—and he was looking for the both of them, since everyone knew by now that they were almost always together. As Chris pondered this and pondered Darren’s (probably exaggerated for his benefit) reactions and responses and thoughts and questions, Chris wondered how he had ever gotten on without Darren to walk him to his scenes. He wondered what he had filled his days and his mind with, and, if Darren’s Blaine didn’t come back next season, if they would still be friends.

Chris knew the answer instantly. Of course they would. Not only did Chris have a long list of people that he had worked with and considered friends (or at least friendly with), but he knew that Darren was something altogether different from that. They were on different ends of the same wavelength, and that when he was with Darren it was like when he had put on glasses for the first time—Darren helped him see the world in color and in focus, and much like his glasses, he wondered how he had ever lived without before.


	2. I Don't Know Why It Took Me So Long to See

Darren was not patient, but he knew how to wait. He was a firm believer in paying his dues, in all aspects of his life, and Chris was no exception. He’d fallen in love with Chris long before Blaine had fallen in love with Kurt, but like Blaine, Darren was oblivious--he hadn’t known he was in love until he was _in_ love.

It snuck up on him, sometimes, the words bubbling into his throat: _I love you._ When they were tired after a long, emotionally draining filming and Chris rested his head on his shoulder and closed his eyes. When Darren was vibrating with energy and couldn’t sleep and he had to dance or sing or move just to remind himself that he was alive and Chris would look up from his book or computer and watch him so sweetly and laugh at his jokes. He loved him. This, Darren knew. They loved each other. These were the times I love you wanted to explode out of his skin, but he had to silence them; so that was when he kissed him, when he cupped his cheek and kissed him and kissed him. _I love you._

He hadn’t said it out loud yet, because he was patient, and Chris was scared. Darren wasn’t sure Chris knew what exactly he was afraid of, but Darren knew him well enough to know not to press it.

It was one of those nights: Darren couldn’t sleep. He and Chris had left rehearsal together and gotten dinner, then Darren watched TV while Chris worked his newest manuscript. Darren hadn’t been allowed to read it yet, which meant it was probably good. Usually, Darren enjoyed their separate-but-together times, when he could do his own thing but still be with Chris and in his space. He knew Chris appreciated it too, because at his core, Chris was an introverted person, and he needed his space.

Darren didn’t know why it was bothering him tonight, when it never had before. Chris was upstairs, either reading in bed or asleep with the book flopped over his chest, but Darren hadn’t been able to join him. He knew how to be patient, but sometimes it felt like he wasn’t getting anywhere. That all the patience in the world wouldn’t make Chris okay with...with them, with him. With them being together, for real. With Darren ever saying it out loud.

In reality, they hadn’t been together that long, but it had been long enough and perfect enough for Darren to know that he was in it for the long haul. And he could haul them as far as Chris would let him, but eventually, he would need Chris’ help. He would need to let Chris know how serious he was.

But not yet.

Not ever?

Darren pushed that thought away and picked up his guitar, mid-pace. He slid it over his stomach and let his fingers find their natural positions; he plucked out a quiet, minor-key tune and hummed along to it; sad, but hopeful, and very sweet. That was how he felt. Very much in love, but not sure if that was something he was allowed to feel.

“Dare?” Darren jumped and turned, music dying. He didn’t know how long he’d been playing, or how long Chris had been standing there; judging by the sleepy confusion on Chris’ unguarded face, not long.

“Hey, Chris,” Darren murmured, not wanting to jolt him back to full awakeness: Chris had enough trouble sleeping to begin with. “Sorry I woke you,”

“You didn’t,” Chris answered through a yawn. “Why’re you ‘wake?” Chris moved over to the couch and curled up, pulling the afghan over his knees. His eyes never left Darren’s; cloudy though they were, Darren still felt like they could see right through him.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Darren answered truthfully, carefully setting the guitar back in its stand before joining Chris on the couch. Chris instantly moved against him, head fitting perfectly in the crook of his shoulder. “We should go back upstairs, hm?”

Chris shrugged; it took him a minute to answer. “Not if you wanna stay down here. You can play me a lullabye,” Chris added, turning his head enough to offer a small smile. “Can’t sleep as well without you. You know that.”

Darren’s heart melted. He leaned down and kissed Chris gently, arm around his shoulders pulling him closer. “Chris.”

It sounded dangerously like _I love you_. He could feel the words bubbling into his throat, threatening to spill over, tempted by the easy innocence of half-asleep dream-stuck Chris, the one whose hair flopped every which way and who smiled with his teeth, every time.

Darren swallowed the words down.

“Dare?” Chris blinked slowly, a frown threatening to form, a crease starting between his eyebrows. “‘S wrong?”

“Nothing,” Darren answered, too quickly. “You’re just...really cute.”

Chris eyed him for a minute before shrugging one shoulder. “‘Kay. Can we go to bed?” Chris leaned up and kissed him, and then his hand found Darren’s and squeezed. “We have an early call tomorrow,” he reminded him.

“Yeah,” Darren answered faintly, nodding without knowing what he was agreeing to. “That sounds good, babe.” He let Chris lead him up the stairs and into bed, let Chris pull his arm around his waist and into its usual spot above Chris' belly button, let himself bury his face in Chris’ neck.

 _You’re head over heels for this boy, Darren,_ he told himself in the dark of the room, long after Chris had fallen properly asleep this time. _You love him_.

 _Sure,_ Darren answered himself. _Obviously. But does he love me?_

Chris rolled over in Darren’s arms and let out a soft sigh. He never looked younger, or more beautiful, than when he was asleep. All of Chris’ waking neuroses disappeared, and he was the boy who had gone to audition for the kid in the wheelchair, the boy who had stayed up late watching AVPM, the boy who had more talent in his little finger than Darren had in his whole body, if you asked Darren.

 _Maybe he does,_ he answered himself, brushing a bit of Chris’ hair back from his face. _Maybe he doesn’t._ There was only one way to know for sure.

 

Darren tried three times that week to arrange the perfect moment to confess his love for Chris. Once over a romantic homemade dinner that got interrupted by a call from Hannah (Darren understood); once after sex (it came out as ‘I love you...r dick’), and once at a fancy restaurant, over Chris’ favorite dessert, where they were interrupted first by the waiter and then by a fan coming and asking for their autograph. Darren didn't know if Chris knew something was up or not; if he did, he paid Darren the small mercy of pretending otherwise.

Darren was restless, again; he felt now like if he didn’t say it, get it out, that he’d crawl out of his skin and scatter into dusty wind for all the anxiety and trouble he’d gone through. It shouldn’t be that hard: one measly sentence to the guy you’d been dating for six months. Not that hard.

(Very hard.)

Darren found himself leaning against the door of Chris’ study. Chris didn’t notice him; he was typing away at his computer, wearing his thin glasses, one of Darren’s old Michigan sweatshirts that was at least one size too big for him, and gray sweatpants that usually only made an appearance when Chris was in full cuddle-mode, which rarely happened.

He had never looked more beautiful. He was so perfectly himself in that moment that Darren wanted to cry for it, but instead, the words slipped out.

“I love you,” Darren said, as easy as breathing, just as natural, almost as quiet. Chris’ fingers stilled over the keys and he turned to look at him slowly, blue eyes big and wide.

“What?”

“I said…” Darren swallowed, kept his smile in place. “I said I love you, Chris.” He tried to sound confident, and feel as confident as he was trying to sound, but he was sure some doubt must have shown on his face, because then Chris was out of his seat in an instant and kissing him, kissing him, wrapping his arms around his neck and kissing him, kissing him.

“Does that mean you love me too?” Darren asked between fervered pecks.

“Shut up,” Chris managed before kissing him again, harder this time, and pressing him out of the study and across the hall into their bedroom.

It was, if not the best fuck of all time, definitely in the top ten.

(However, Darren could not help but notice that Chris did not say it back, not with words.)

(Darren could be patient.)

(Maybe now he’d at least be able to sleep, because Chris knew he loved him.)

 

It was three weeks later and Darren was sitting haphazardly on one of the McKinley desks, waiting for his call; they’d been shooting and reshooting the same scene all week, mostly reaction shots. Nothing intense, at least not for Blaine; it was a Finchel-heavy episode, and Klaine was in the back seat again. That was fine with Darren; it gave him more downtime.

More, but not infinite. Chris found him, still fully Kurt, bright eyes and hair taller and styled.

“Hey, we were looking for you. They’re calling lunch, d’you wanna go somewhere? Kevin was thinking Chipotle, but Lea wants something that won’t burn through her small intestine,” Chris rolled his eyes goodnaturedly and smiled, then offered Darren his hand.

“I’ll go wherever you wanna go,” Darren said, the truth of that seeming easier and different now that he had said it-- _I love you_. He’d been saying it for a long time, he realized now; maybe that’s why nothing had really changed between him and Chris.

Even though Chris hadn’t said it back. Darren was patient.

Darren took his hand and smiled back, giving his fingers a gentle squeeze. He started to to walk past Chris to the door but Chris pulled him back, catching him by surprise with a kiss. Darren’s hand found Chris’ ever-sharpening jawline and Chris pulled him closer by the shoulders; Darren pulled away midmoan and blinked at Chris, dazed.

They had rules.

“I thought we couldn’t--at work--I thought you said--”

Chris shrugged. “I say a lot of things, Darren.” He smiled impishly, in a way that seemed dangerous to Darren, then leaned close again and whispered against his lips.

“I love you, too.”

Darren kissed him again, only pulling back when one of the plastic beakers on the table behind them crashed and fell over at the force of them pressing against the table. They broke away and laughed, awkwardly, the blush creeping up Chris’ neck.

“But you say a lot of things,” Darren repeated slowly, wild grin tugging at his lips. “How do I know you mean it?”

Chris grinned back, slowly. “I’ll show you. _Later_.” And then Chris waltzed past him, looking back over his shoulder to offer Darren that cattish grin that drove him nuts. Darren followed--he would go wherever Chris led him.

Because he loved Chris, and Chris loved him, too.

He still felt like he might come apart and fly away at any moment, but he wasn’t afraid of that feeling, not anymore, because he loved Chris. And more importantly, Chris loved him, too.

_I love you._

The words played over and over again in Darren’s brain, keeping the stupid grin in place for the rest of the day, even when Blaine was supposed to be looking sad and vaguely supportive in the background. They would reshoot tomorrow.

But tomorrow wouldn’t be any different, Darren realized. Because he loved Chris, and would love him tomorrow, and Chris loved him, and would love him tomorrow. He felt like he would never stop smiling, not as long as he loved Chris and Chris loved him.

_I love you._

_I love you, too._

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really this should have been titled "I Don't Know Why It Took Me So Long to Write", but that's not the lyric, is it? Thanks for sticking around, y'all.


End file.
